by Brian Farrey
Uncle Garax gave a low whistle that trilled up and down. A second later, a similar whistle answered. The moss near the base of the rock rustled and a pair of tall, brutish-looking men—one bearded, the other bald—stepped out from behind.
“My, er . . . assistants,” Garax said. He leaned in and said more quietly, “Not the brightest pair, but they get the job done.”
Da looked the rock up and down. “I take it business is booming.”
“Is it ever!” Uncle Garax bellowed. My uncle’s assistants moved to opposite sides of the rock’s base. They reached through the moss and grabbed hidden discs. As they cranked at the discs, a series of ropes pulled at the curtain of moss, drawing it up. Camouflage burlap, painted to look like stone, rose higher and higher to reveal a large house mounted on massive wheels. A sign over the house’s door, carved in wood, read GHOSTFIRE.
The Ghostfire Proxy. It was embarrassing that I hadn’t figured it out sooner. The Ghostfire Proxy was an old family business, handed down through the Grimjinx clan for nearly three centuries. From this mobile house, Garax ran one of the oldest scams in Grimjinx history.
Step One: simulate the threat of an attacking monster in the middle of the night near a remote village. Step Two: show up and offer to exterminate the monster . . . for a price. Step Three: rid the village of the “monster” in a flashy battle of smoke and mirrors and leave with the villagers’ payment.
“How’s this then?” Garax asked, snapping his fingers at the bearded henchman. Beard held up a small piece of parchment cut to look like the outline of a braxilar. He passed it in front of Uncle Garax’s lantern. A giant, menacing shadow slid across the trees.
“Big monster gonna come get you, Jaxy-Waxy,” Garax said with a titter.
I faked a smile. Somehow, it had escaped my dear uncle that I wasn’t five years old anymore. Still, it could have been worse. At least Alsa and Olsa weren’t with him. Garax’s daughters—my cousins—were horrid. They used to sneak up behind me when I was five and yank my undergarments up out of my trousers. Thankfully, they’d been exiled years ago for crimes Garax never wanted to discuss.
“The stomping was a nice touch,” Da admitted.
Uncle Garax pointed proudly to the back of the house. A wooden crane hung off the roof, suspending a large boulder by a thick rope and several pulleys. “One of my modifications. The higher we drop the boulder, the bigger the stomp.”
“So, when you blew that horn,” I said, “that was the signal something’s gone wrong and you should stop with all the braxilar stuff, right?”
Uncle Garax tapped his nose. “And another new feature . . .” He pointed to the bald man, who scaled a ladder on the side of the house. Stomping across the shingles, Bald went to the chimney, which was unlike any I’d seen. Elbow-shaped glass tubes ran in and out of the brickwork. Rusty gears and pistons covered nearly every surface.
Bald grabbed an L-shaped crank and gave it several turns. The gears and pistons came to life, ticking and clicking quietly. A river of black dust ran through the glass tubes and shot out the top of the chimney. I immediately recognized the smell of tinderjack powder. Bald pulled a cord. We heard flint strike metal. A spark shot up, igniting the tinderjack powder into a ball of blue flame.
“Bangers!” Da said. Even I had to admit it was a clever way to simulate the braxilar’s fire breath.
“It’s good to know you’re well, big brother. Ma’s been worried about you,” Uncle Garax said.
“You’ve seen Nanni?” I asked. We’d tried to find my grandmother, but she’d already gone into hiding.
Uncle Garax nodded. “Few months back. Smart old bird our ma is, Ona. She was lying low near Cindervale, last time I saw her.”
I saw Da relax. This was the first bit of good news we’d had in a long, long while.
Uncle Garax pulled Da close. “So, what do you think, Ona? Wanna help us pull the scam once more for old time’s sake? Mind you, that little pit of a village you’re in doesn’t look like it can afford our services. But they must have something of value, right?”
Da shook his head. “Too dangerous, Garax. We can’t run the risk of the Palatinate getting involved.”
Uncle Garax frowned, his greedy gaze fixed on Slagbog. “Are you sure? I could really use the cash.”
“I thought you said business was good,” I said.
Garax waved his hand at the chimney contraption. “It’s not cheap, faking monster attacks. Equipment like this costs a few silvernibs.”
It was more likely that my uncle burned through his money faster than he could “earn” it. If he was hurting for cash with a successful scam going, it was his own fault.
“Come into the village in the morning,” Da said. “You can claim to have chased the braxilar away. You might get a decent meal out of it.”
I noticed Da was careful not to mention that the meal would probably consist of the only plentiful food in the village: grubslush, a sort of gray ooze made of ground-up slugs and grubs that the par-Goblins considered a delicacy. For the record, it tastes exactly as delightful as it sounds.
Beard and Bald, who had yet to say a word, perked up. I got the idea they might not have had real food in a while. Uncle Garax sighed. “Fine. You used to be a lot more fun before you became the Palatinate’s worst enemy. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Da shook his brother’s hand. When Uncle Garax disappeared into the Ghostfire house, Da and I started the trek back to Slagbog.
“So,” I said. “Uncle Garax.”
“I know,” Da said. Garax was the black gronx of the family . . . if a family of thieves could have a black gronx. He had a history of looking out for himself only. Not exactly trustworthy, my uncle. “Still, we might be able to use the Ghostfire house in our plan.”
“True.”
“And it’s nice to hear that Nanni’s doing well.”
“And I suppose it’s good to see your brother again,” I admitted grudgingly.
Da smiled and put his arm across my back. “Let’s not get carried away, son.”
21
The Seeds of Rebellion
“A thief’s greatest enemy isn’t the law, it’s distraction.”
—Baloras Grimjinx, architect of the First Aviard Nestvault Pillage
We awoke to a loud rumble the next morning. Groggy from the previous night, Da and I stumbled over and pulled back the curtain.
Our window filled with the sight of Uncle Garax’s house on wheels as it lumbered slowly into town. People outside pressed up against their mud huts as the rolling house passed. My uncle sat on a perch at the front, his legs cranking on the pedals that moved the house forward. Two long, wooden levers allowed him to steer. He wasn’t very good. When his hand slipped and veered slightly right, the house’s mighty wheels crushed a row of rain barrels.
“Sorry ’bout that!” Garax called out to the Aviard woman who owned the shattered barrels.
The house came to a stop in the square, igniting loud chatter from everyone. But the noisy discontent of the crowd was instantly extinguished by the thunderous shouts of Oberax.
“She’s got quite a mastery of par-Goblin profanity, our mayoress,” I said.
Da got dressed. “I should run interference,” he said, ducking outside.
Oberax’s cursing grew quieter as Da quickly explained that it was “Mr. Bleakhex” and his associates who had saved the village from the braxilar last night. Oberax grudgingly offered them Slagbog’s hospitality. As Oberax led Uncle Garax and his henchmen away to claim their meal, the rest of the village, now roused, went about their daily business.
After breakfast, Callie left with Da for their weekly trip to Umbramore. The prison’s magical defenses were so powerful that they prevented the Palatinate from detecting Callie’s spellsphere as she probed the tower, looking for weaknesses. Da wrote down everything Callie learned. Really, I think Da went because it brought him close to Ma. Callie once told me that sometimes he spoke quietly in the prison’s direction, as though
Ma could hear him.
The Dowager, Aubrin, and I went to the town square to make enough blood-masking tea for the entire village in the massive cauldron. Over the past six months, we’d perfected the formula. The Dowager had even made a few adjustments that took the bitter edge off. It was now only mildly disgusting to swallow. More important, it kept the bloodreavers away.
As the Dowager and I added the necessary herbs, Aubrin sat on the nearby scaffold, engrossed in her journal. I kept sneaking glances her way and every time I did, her eyes rose to meet mine.
After the tenth time, she said, “Just ask me and get it over with.”
I pretended she hadn’t caught me spying. “Sorry?”
“We both know you want to ask what’s on your mind. It’s been eating you up for months. Just ask.”
The Dowager snickered. She enjoyed seeing me fail at being sneaky.
I stared into the cauldron. “I don’t know what you—”
“About the prophecy. Your death,” she prompted.
Oh. That question.
The truth was that I didn’t want to know. Six months of running and I’d never brought it up. Those few times the knowledge of my demise crept into my mind, I thought about the marbles. No single prophecy was inevitable. Several events had to align perfectly before a predicted future event came true. Prophecies were delicate things. Anything could disrupt them.
And I had a talent for disrupting things.
“I figured that since you hadn’t said anything, it wasn’t an issue anymore. Maybe we’d avoided it.”
She looked down guiltily. “I—I thought we had too. But lately . . .”
She didn’t have to say any more. Since we went on the run, Aubrin’s visions had been few and far between. Most didn’t make sense, and couldn’t make sense unless we had the other pieces of the puzzle: namely, the visions from the other seers. But the fact that she was nervous meant she’d seen my death again. And that meant it was still a good possibility.
Despite my resolve not to think about it, I’d be lying to say I wasn’t a tiny bit curious. “Okay,” I said, “what did you see?”
Aubrin fell quiet, her face twisting as she gave it some thought. “I saw you. You were dirty and injured. And there was a pillar of light. Tall and powerful. You walked right up to it, paused, then stepped inside. You were consumed immediately.”
I felt sick to my stomach. “Consumed immediately” was not promising. “So, the lesson here is: avoid pillars of light. Got it.”
“It’s not that simple,” she insisted, a tremor in her voice. “If we don’t change things, you’re going to die.”
“You said yourself it’s a possible future. And if we try to change things, we could make something worse happen.”
She held her journal tight to her chest and said softly, “Jaxter, what could be worse than your death?”
I swallowed. For six months, we’d spent every minute of every day in fear. It was rare when sentiment broke through and made me remember how much I loved my sister.
Aubrin moved closer. “I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe the way to stop your death is here.” She thumped the pages of her journal. “Maybe that’s what the message is. Maybe it tells us how to save you.”
“Then why did you write it in a language no one can translate?” I asked.
“It’s what I saw in my vision, you garfluk,” she said, exasperated. “I saw a hand write this. The same hand wrote ‘Jaxter—deliver to Eaj.’ I bet that’s what it is. I bet it’s the secret to saving you.”
“Well, Ma once said the only people who might be able to translate it are the assassin-monks of Blackvesper Abbey. And we can’t exactly ask them, can we?”
Besides being notoriously difficult to find, rumors everywhere suggested that the monks had joined forces with the Palatinate, enforcing the new law side by side with the Sentinels.
Aubrin sighed. “This would be easier if we had the other seers here. I hope Luda returns with them and Maloch soon.”
I didn’t mention what Sarquin Scalander had told us about the Dagger. It was better for Aubrin to think there was still a chance they could return.
“Anything else I should know about my death?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “You die in the rebellion’s attempt to overthrow the Palatinate.”
“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? We already tried to stop them. And I lived.”
Aubrin hit me with her most serious look. “There’s another rebellion coming.”
“Did you see it in a vision?”
She shook her head. “I know because of her.” She pointed to the Dowager.
All the while we’d been speaking, the Dowager had been quiet. In the old days, it would have been strange for her to remain silent for so long. Not anymore.
It had been a long time since I’d seen the Dowager. I mean, she was standing right there and I could see her. But she wasn’t my Dowager. She was no longer my mentor, with fire in her belly. Months on the run had changed her. Symptoms of her childhood illness—mag-plague—had flared up recently, making her tired and weak. She rarely spoke these days and kept to herself.
But now, with Aubrin pointing right at her, she could no longer stay quiet. “Rebellion? What are you talking about?”
Aubrin nodded across the square to an empty notice board. Just last week, a Sentinel had come to the village to replace one of the many wanted posters—with sketches of the Dowager and Aubrin—that always seemed to mysteriously vanish from Slagbog. Despite what the Scalanders had said, one thing was clear: it wasn’t just the Grimjinxes the Palatinate wanted.
“If they’re still looking for the Dowager,” Aubrin reasoned, “then that means people are still loyal to her family. The Palatinate knows she’s still a threat. They know people would rise up if she asked.”
I searched the Dowager’s weary face for a sign that Aubrin had struck a nerve. Instead, a ghost of a smile crossed her lips and she said, “Aubrin, you are far more of a threat to the Palatinate than I’ll ever be. An augur could undo all their plans. Our job is to protect you. Of the two of us, you are the greater loss. We can’t allow that to happen.”
Aubrin opened her mouth to argue but I silenced her with a look. I knew when to argue with the Dowager and when not. Now was definitely a not.
Steam rose off the cauldron. The tea was nearly done. Aubrin reached over the edge, dipped a small cup, and handed it to me. “Drink your tea,” she said, before filling another cup for herself. I spent so much time brewing the tea for the whole village and making sure everyone drank it daily that I sometimes forgot to take my own dose.
I watched the Dowager carefully as she rang a bell, beckoning the rest of Slagbog to come drink. Even though she rarely spoke, I knew the Palatinate’s power play had hurt her deeply. She’d refused the job of High Laird to devote her life to studying the natural world. But deep down, she felt a duty to her family’s legacy.
All our efforts in the past months had been devoted to getting Ma out of Umbramore so we could leave the Provinces. We’d never once talked about fighting back. Maybe because it seemed so impossible. Would we even stand a chance?
People formed a line in front of the Dowager as she handed out cups of tea. I caught her sneaking glances at me more than once. Aubrin’s words had gotten to her. The seeds of rebellion had been planted. The only question that remained: What would it take to make them grow?
22
Betrayed
“Beware the lesson that nets a copperbit but costs a silvernib.”
—Allia Grimjinx, master forger of Korrin Province
Over the next few days, Da barely got any sleep. He knew the raid on Umbramore had to occur by month’s end when the next tribute was due. Late into the night, he consulted feverishly with anyone in the village who’d ever spent time in the prison. Together, they drew up crude blueprints and formed a plan of attack. It wouldn’t be long now.
Uncle Garax and his assistants still hadn’t left town. Long
after they’d received their free meal, the Ghostfire house remained parked in the square. Although food was in short supply, most of the villagers didn’t mind sharing with the “monster hunters.” Ghostfire’s presence made people feel safe. Uncle Garax soaked it all up. He loved being the center of attention.
I kept a closer eye on the Dowager. Part of me hoped that Aubrin’s talk of rebellion had sunk in and that whenever she sat quietly, she was really thinking of ways to lead a revolt. I had a feeling that once we got Ma out of prison, the Dowager wouldn’t leave the Provinces with us. The land was her birthright. But any plans she had, she kept quiet.
Knowing we’d be facing Umbramore’s magical defenses, I stocked up on magic-resistant plants. It was hard to say if they’d help, but they certainly couldn’t hurt. On our way to collect plants one day, Aubrin and I found Da pounding on the door of the Ghostfire house.
“Something wrong, Da?” I asked.
Da put his hands on his hips. “Have you seen your uncle? It occurred to me that we could use the Ghostfire house to transport any sick prisoners away from Umbramore. I wanted to run the idea by him.”
Aubrin shrugged. “Maybe he’s off hunting monsters.”
Da snorted. “Somebody told me he borrowed a mang and rode it out of the village. Where do you suppose he got to?”
“He’s probably just getting ready for his next scam,” I said. “Come on, Jinxface, let’s have a look around.”
Slagbog could be walked in under fifteen minutes and we covered it well. Uncle Garax wasn’t in the village. We were about report back to Da when we spotted two familiar, hulking frames lumber their way into the tavern.
“Let’s see if Uncle Garax’s assistants know where he is,” I said.
“I thought they didn’t have any money,” Aubrin said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. There was that to look into as well. I hoped they weren’t planning on stealing their drinks. Normally, as a Grimjinx, this would be completely acceptable. But we had too much to lose these days. A brouhaha could attract the Palatinate.
